The Fool Reversed
by DITZYGALAS
Summary: /You know I'd do anything for you./ He told her the summer before her last year at Hogwarts. They were lounging lazily on the beach in front of Shell Cottage, eating bland ham and cheese sandwiches and drinking sweet lemonade. /I know you would, Ted./ She replied.


Teddy Lupin is foolish. _So fucking foolish_.

But not in the stupid way.

He's a different breed of foolish. He's the type of foolish that is dreamy and aloof and romantic. A man consumed with infatuation and love for someone who will never fall back into him.

He's a fool for love.

Or at least his own idea of it, he realises—as he kisses the nape of Victoire's neck, feeling her squirm under him, and does not stop even as the realisation sinks deep into his thick skin. Doesn't bother to not make love to the girl who is only out to fuck him before her portkey departs to America and she will, once again, be back in the arms of some random dude she found a couple weeks before in a swanky party. Doesn't bother to mask his hunger and desperation for her as he devours her lips and strokes her breasts and sweeps his fingers across her panty, as she moans his name a hundred times.

(_Teddy. Teddy! Oh God... Love. Ted!_)

Teddy Lupin admits that he is a fool as he undresses her, popping open the buttons of her soft blue shirt and dragging down her skirt. Admits that he is a romantic and she's not in love with him—not like she used to anyway—as he unhooks the white bralette she's wearing, kissing her bare skin in worship. Admits that she's only using him, for a good one night fuck, and does not mind. He trails kisses all the way down her chest, to her stomach and then even lower, sliding her matching panty down her legs. Admits that perhaps he's using her too, that he's secretly hoping that the more times he's fucked her, the less feelings and future daydreams of her he'll have.

(He dreams about a blonde-haired daughter with his nose and lips but her striking eyes, toddling slowly towards him. Victoire somewhere behind, calling out to them. They live in whatever part of the world Victoire wants them to live in.

And they are _happily_ together.)

He kisses the space between her thighs, light and tender, savouring each taste, thinking that this is how salvation tastes. This is how divinity tastes. Why humankind bow down to religion and faith so fervently.

He takes his time to devour the very taste of all things holy. Takes his time to touch the inside of her knuckle-deep, going in and out slowly before picking up pace.

He gets her a shade crazier.

(He drives her crazy in bed. He acted the role of perfect boyfriend outside of the bedroom. He gets along well with her family, parents and siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles. Even her grandmothers and grandfathers adore him. He hung out with her friends and still stays in touch with a couple of them. He brings her fresh lilies every time she arrives back in England and takes her out to eat at The Maddening Witch the night of her arrival because he knows how much she misses dining there. He sends her weird knick-knacks he bought during his Auror missions and personally writes notes on each one of them for her. He writes her every week and keeps up with American pop culture just so he can get all her obscure references.

But it's all still not enough.

No, not enough. He's never enough for her.

There's always some other person, some other bloke who understands and treats her better. Someone who is more captivating and fascinating for her.

Even back when they were still dating, he found traces of her dalliances all over her and her flat.)

Victoire hates foreplays that are long and winding.

So he nudges her into all four and enters her from behind once she's wet enough. A groan escapes her lips while a grunt his. His hand traces the long scar down her back that she got from her final scoliosis treatment before resting on her waist. He moves her closer, filling her up. His lips find her neck, nipping at it, biting and sucking on the skin.

Soon enough he's going in and out of her. At first slowly and then faster and again slower. Over and over. In a cycle she can keep up with. Just the way she likes it.

They come apart almost always together. He shudders and calls out her name. She writhes, grunts, groans, moans before collapsing onto the bed utterly spent. White liquid oozing out of her nether region.

He makes sure to kiss and hold her, roams his hands all over her body. Settles his head on the nook of her shoulder, evens his breathing, admires her for a short minute.

(He once told her that he'd relocate to America to be with her. She laughed, shook her head at him. No, don't move to America for me.)

She emanates a different kind of glow after sex, not the usual fierce ruby glow she's known for. It's a colder one, almost iron-like. Gripping—sultry even, like she could command an army into war right then and there, naked, in the moment most would usually find themselves most vulnerable.

The glow makes her look like a goddess, a powerful and all-knowing one. The breed of goddess that he'll willingly worship until the day he dies.

(_You know I'd do anything for you. _He told her the summer before her last year at Hogwarts. They were lounging lazily on the beach in front of Shell Cottage, eating bland ham and cheese sandwiches and drinking sweet lemonade. _I know you would, Ted. _She replied.)

"When will your portkey depart again?" he asks her as he settles against the headboard of her bed, holding her in his arms.

"Tomorrow at three in the evening," she sighs, nonchalantly, snuggling eveb closer to him, "you'll be here, won't you? Tomorrow at one? One last time? Chad's going to be waiting for me at the MACUSA Portkey office so I can't do two without him asking me questions and realising something's amiss."

"Yes, of course," he breathes, "I can come even earlier. Twelve?"

"Twelve sounds perfect, Teddy!"

(Teddy Lupin is a foolish man. He always gives in to her. He'd do anything, everything, and yet nothing for her.)


End file.
